


Playing Through

by kriadydragon



Category: White Collar
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-04
Updated: 2011-03-04
Packaged: 2017-10-16 02:13:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/167321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kriadydragon/pseuds/kriadydragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Diana and Neal are undercover when Neal is hit with one heck of a migraine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Playing Through

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by the awesome WriterJC.

There was once a time when Diana had thought about becoming an actress. She had been eight, with a fondness for playing dress up that didn't get old until she was thirteen, when dress-up only happened at social functions that tried to kill her with boredom. But it had been a whim, fleeting as a real dream and shot down by the impression of acting as the cliché career goal of spoiled rich girls everywhere, and Diana refused to be just another rich girl. She was going to do something important with her life.

She always found it pleasantly ironic how playing dress up could have a purpose. The dream might have been a dud, but the ability – the enjoyment, even – of pretend was a skill the FBI had happily encouraged her to sharpen.

Indifferent mistress of the rich and ambitious? A cake walk.

Diana wondered, with her arm knitted through Caffrey's as he escorted her into the abstractly modern home of the more rich and ambitious, if Caffrey had been a dress-up kind of kid himself. He played his parts with an ease that made Diana secretly jealous, and just as secretly impressed, though never in a million years would she ever admit it. They walked through the main entrance like they owned the place, nodding to people they didn't know like they did know them, oozing copious amounts of self-importance and charm (self-importance on Diana's part, charm on Neal's part).

Neal could even make pinching the bridge of his nose in discomfort (when ever he thought no one was looking) seem like it should be passed off as normal behavior. But Diana was standing right next to Neal, it didn't get past her.

“You all right?” Diana said under her breath, tilting her head at a stranger in greeting.

“Never better,” Neal replied, smiling to light up the room. The place was like a techno club, all metal and glass with a splash of blinding bright color in the form of red love seats and bright blue easy chairs. The wet bar was in the corner of what had to be the ballroom (very Alice in Wonderland-esque, the floor checkered in black and white marble), the counter stainless steel and the guy tending it more like a bouncer than a server. There were tables spread out, round, large enough to seat ten and covered in black or white cloths to match the floor, because this wasn't just a party, it was a dinner. Their target, Mark Servino, in the dark blue suit, red shirt and tie, was sitting at the middle table surrounded by an entourage of the equally flamboyant. Spotting Diana and Neal, Mark waved them over.

Neal raised his hand then pointed at the bar, and Mark nodded.

“Uh, Caffrey...”

“Relax. Got to blend in, remember?” He tapped his knuckles on the counter. “I'll have a Coke.”

Diana arched her eyebrow at him. “Really? Free booze and you're not going to take advantage?”

“I'm totally taking advantage. I'm just in the mood for something... a little different.”

“Sure you're feeling all right?”

Neal's smile turned saccharine. “Why, Diana, I had no idea you cared.”

Diana shot the smile right back at him. “Nick, sweety,” she said, and finished in a whisper with, “Don't make me stick a gun in your ribs.”

But Neal kept on grinning. “You really are bound and determined to stick a gun in someone's flank.” He tossed his coke back like it was a shot. “Fetish or habit?”

“Common sense if I want to keep the weapon in question out of sight.” Diana tugged his arm. “Come on, _sweety_. Can't keep Mr. Servino waiting.

After Neal got a refill, they joined Mark.

Diana would die before she said it out loud, but she liked being witness to Neal's way with words (much easier to appreciate when he was playing for team FBI). Mark was in the import/export business, and he liked to import/export items of a dubious nature. Neal – aka, Nick – was interested in hiring his services to bring a few stolen goods into the country. But Mark was a cautious guy, and could afford to pick his clientèle from among those desperate for his services. Mark wasn't the one who had to convince Nick to use his company, Nick was the one who had to convince Mark that his needs were legit – that was how good Mark was. The FBI had been after this guy for years, so many years they had a backlog of plans that were supposed to finally nail this guy, but the bastard had fled the country before anyone could put those plans to use. The very moment Mark had finally felt it safe enough to return to the states, Peter had sicced Neal on him, putting that silver tongue to good use once again.

Step one had been setting up a meeting with Mark. Step two buddying up to Mark and providing him with a list of pre-prepared credentials and contacts who could confirm Nick's story. Step three, waiting for Mark to reciprocate with an invitation to come hang out. Step four, which would come tomorrow, a tour of the docks and Mark's cargo ships. Step five, the money transfer, which would seal Mark's fate.

Neal... Nick... and Mark hob-knobbed, Neal putting away the cokes. Mark asked with mild curiosity coated in suspicion about Neal's drink choice and Neal said smoothly how he'd been suffering headaches and was on medication. Dinner arrived - a meal of lobster and some kind of fancy scalloped potatoes that felt like it was draining Diana's bank account just to look at it – and Neal went pale. He talked merrily while he picked at his food, taking at most four bites. Mark was getting a little too tipsy on vodka shots to notice.

Halfway through the meal, Servino stood (barely) and invited his guests to stay the night. The guy was either drunk off his ass or playing them all – an overnight stay had come with the invitation to dinner. It ensured that no one would make any secret calls to any government law enforcement agencies; the place was rigged so that with a flip of a switch, Mark could make it impossible for anyone to contact the outside world. The FBI had learned this the hard way, Mark taking off to France as a result.

The party didn't end until after one am. By then, Mark was (or pretending to be) incoherent and Neal was white as a sheet, moisture glittering at his temples. One of the servers escorted them up to the second floor and one of the guest rooms, black and white like the ball room and rather hard on the eyes. Neal blinked as though he'd just stepped out of pitch dark into blinding light. He thanked the server and tipped him a few bucks with a shaking hand.

The very second the door closed, Neal ran to the bathroom.

Diana ran after him. “Neal?”

Neal hadn't had time to close the door, his choked heaving amplified by the spacious interior. He was on his knees in front of the toilet, back muscles coiling and uncoiling under his jacket each time he purged.

Diana's immediate thought was that he'd been poisoned. If that was the case, they needed to haul ass out of here, _now_ , down the block to the van waiting for them for when they needed to make a quick getaway. She grabbed him by the upper arm.

“It's okay, Neal. I'm getting you out of here--”

Neal's shaking hand waved her off frantically. He coughed, spat, then shook his head.

“No. I'm good.” He sighed, massaging the space between his eyes. “Okay... I'm not good. But it's okay, really.”

“How is you puking yourself inside out okay?” Diana planted her hands firmly on her hips. “Damn it, Caffrey, If you have the flu--”

“Not the flu,” Neal said, pushing himself to his feet. He shifted over to the black and white tiled sink, letting the water run until it cooled. He rinsed, spit, took a drink from his cupped hand, then splashed water on his face. After that, he stood there leaning with his hands fisted on the tile, his head pressed to the mirror, his eyes closed.

“Just a migraine,” he said.

Diana stared at him, skeptical. “Just a migraine?” She took a step forward, narrowing her eyes. “Are you sure?”

“Oh, yeah,” Neal said, lightly. As lightly as he could with a blinding headache that wouldn't let him open his eyes. Christie got migraines, sometimes mild, sometimes so bad they kept her bed ridden for a day.

“You get this... flashy light thing in your vision, then you get the headache,” Neal said. “I got the flashy light thing when we walked in.” He rolled his head to her, squinting his eyes open, his smile fractured by pain. “Kind of last minute, I know. But... it happens.”

“Yeah, I know about the flashy light thing. You've had these before?” Diana asked, part alarmed, part intrigued.

Neal nodded. “A couple of times.”

“It's not in your file.” A file so thick there was practically a section of storage wall dedicated to it.

“I'm good at hiding it,” Neal said, still trying to smile like this was all routine, nothing to worry about, just ignore it and it would go away. Except Neal was looking like a gentle breeze would knock him over.

With an annoyed roll of her eyes, Diana surged forward; a little too sudden for Neal's fragile peace of mind when he flinched back. Taking his wrist, Diana tugged him to the bed.

“Gee, pumpkin, not tonight, I have a headache,” Neal croaked.

Diana smirked tautly. “You're lucky you're sick, _dear heart_.”

“Or else, what, a gun to my ribs?”

“Try my foot to your ass.” Diana shoved him onto the bed, which was a mistake. Rather than sit, Neal collapsed with a cry of pain, curling into himself as though the headache had spread to the rest of his body.

Diana's heart leaped into her throat. She hadn't meant to do that, but she was frustrated, and Neal was a convenient target. She grabbed Neal's shoulder trying to steady him long after the fact. “Damn it! I am so sorry--”

“S'okay,” Neal gasped. “S'okay. Just... please don't... do that... again.”

Diana grimaced and squeezed his shoulder. “Okay, Neal. What do you need? What helps? Heat, pills, coffee?” Christie preferred coffee herself when the migraines were bad. The more the blood flowed, the better she had said.

“Aspirin,” Neal whimpered. “All ready had a Coke.”

“Anything else?”

“Uh... heating pad to the neck. Think that's asking too much, though.”

Diana smiled, patting Neal's shoulder. “We'll make do with what we got.” And what they had were wash clothes, hot water, and room service. After Diana had phoned who ever was in charge of bringing things to the room, and placed a wet folded cloth on the back of Neal's neck, she proceeded to remove his shoes. His jacket required more finesse, the going slow as she eased his arms from each sleeve. Too much movement and Neal groaned, sometimes whimpered, sometimes swallowed like he was going to puke. A cart with glasses and a wine bottle chilling in a glass bowl of ice had been left in the room. Cheers for hospitality: Diana emptied the bowl in the bathroom sink and set it by the bed within easy reach.

When Diana started to cover Neal with the duvet folded at the end of the bed, Neal shifted as though about to get up.

“No. You take the bed. I'll take the couch.”

“No, you'll take the bed and you'll like it. Or else.”

Neal peeked out from under his arm. “Gun in ribs or kick in ass?”

“Both.”

“You're mean.”

Diana chuffed, tucking Neal in.

Mark delivered the Aspirin personally, looking remarkably less drunk and wanting to see Neal's condition for himself. Diana played the part of the mistress annoyed with a lover who is always forgetting his medication, snatching the bottle of pills as though controlling the urge to throw said bottle at said lover. Mark left satisfied, still playing the part of the not-so-drunk-after-all concerned host by reminding them that whatever they needed they would get.

Diana helped Neal sit up to take the pills with a glass of water.

“No Coke?” Neal slurred.

“You vomited. That means you lost liquid. I'm not letting you get dehydrated.”

Neal groaned non-committal in response. He was out of it, or seemed out of it until Diana helped ease Neal back on the pillows. His breathing increased to the shallow panting of someone in agony, his body curling tighter and his arms burying his head. He moaned and whimpered and swallowed, shaking until the pain finally dialed it back enough for his respirations to slow.

“Damn, Neal, are they always this bad?” Diana asked. She didn't think about it when she put her hand to his back through the blanket and rubbed – it had always made Christie feel better. Up and down, left and right, his ribcage heaving under her hands with each breath that was deep but short. Not panting, but definitely trying to keep up with what had to be a rapid heart beat.

“S-sometimes,” Neal whispered. “S-specially if I... th-throw up. It'll pass. Always does.”

“How the hell were you even able to ignore it if it was this bad?”

Neal sucked in a sharp breath. “Was hard. Believe me.” He sighed.

“Want me to stop?” Diana asked.

“No.”

But seeing as how talking couldn't be helping, Diana fell quiet.

Neal's breathing eventually steadied to the slow rhythm of sleep. Diana pulled away and replaced the cloth. Their bags had all ready been delivered to the room. Diana grabbed hers and her purse and headed to the bathroom to change.

During the years Peter had chased Neal, Neal's file had grown to epic proportions while any medical info they managed to scrounge remained light. Neal was a healthy guy, a careful guy. He exercised, ate right, and if he ever got hurt or sick no one ever knew about it. Catching Caffrey and sending him to prison hadn't shed any more light on any potential health issues. A scar here and there on his bones (meaning that even the great, healthy and careful Neal Caffrey ended up injured from time to time), scars so faint they might as well not exist on his body, indications that he may have had pneumonia at one point, and that was it. Nothing about migraines.

Diana knew why. But, damn, to be in that much pain and still manage to cover it up... she couldn't imagine what it took to con someone into thinking you were at the peak of health when you weren't.

Diana changed into the spaghetti strap silk night gown (she hated night gowns, but she had to stay in character) then remembered with a groan that she and Neal were supposed to be sharing a bed.

That meant no extra blankets.

The room was warm, but wouldn't stay that way once she stopped moving and her body cooled. It was with a heavy sigh that Diana left the bathroom.

The duvet and a pillow were spread out on the couch. Neal was curled up under the sheets.

“Sneaky bastard,” Diana muttered, fighting a grin. She re-warmed Neal's cloth before going to bed.

\-----------------------

The oddly shaped black couch was a lot more comfortable than it looked. Diana slept well, waking early to slip into the bed next to Neal before anyone showed up to provide a wake up call (and to ensure that all the couples were, in fact, actual couples sleeping in the same bed and not agents sleeping apart). Another trolley was delivered, loaded with fruits, bagels, and two plates of bacon and eggs. This was what Diana really liked about going undercover – fancy food, breakfast in bed, and not having to pay a dime for it. Plus knowing how pissed Mark would be when he realized he'd housed a federal agent and a snitch.

Neal was slow getting up. He didn't look any better. If anything, he looked worse, his clothes rumpled, his hair a mess, his face pale and his eyes shadowed. One look at the free buffet and pale went to green (it made Diana feel bad about eating in front of him). But there was at least some consolatory improvement: he was mobile and managed not to throw up.

“You up for this?” Diana asked.

Neal said nothing, only nodded. He shuffled to the bathroom, dragging his bag behind him. Diana heard the shower running and fifteen minutes later Neal shuffled out, dressed in another suit, hair styled and him looking overall a lot less like road kill. But he continued to ignore the food. Instead, he sat on the couch, rubbing his face.

“Neal?” Diana pressed.

“I'm fine,” Neal said, dropping his hands to his lap and leaning back. “It never goes away completely, just kind of... drifts off. But I'm better, believe me. I can do this.”

“Good to know. Now eat something. Don't give me that face. Half a bagel, at least. And water, lots of it.” She pushed her plate away then headed for the bathroom to get ready. Only to turn and lean against the door frame, arms folded while she pinned Neal with a pointed look. “I had better find half a bagel eaten when I come out.”

Neal only nodded. That worried Diana. But there was nothing to be done about it other than make him eat and force two more aspirin on him.

The butler didn't come to bring them down until after an hour. Mark had provided individual limousines for everyone. Neal acted as whole and healthy as a guy who hadn't suffered one hell of a migraine; smiling, chatting, even sauntering though it had to be killing him. But even with sunglasses on, stepping out into the bright day still made him wince. The ride to the docks...

The ride to the docks was obvious hell, and Diana longed for the peace of mind a bowl or a bucket would have brought. Three minutes into traffic and Neal was doubled over, fingers tangled in his hair as he gripped his head currently tucked between his knees. He groaned and whimpered, Diana rubbing his back with one hand while placing a cloth full of ice to the back of his neck with the other (the limousine had a mini-bar... and a mini-fridge, and a small flat screen TV with a DVD player). When they finally arrived, it was a couple of minutes before Neal could move.

Mark was polite enough to wait, but he didn't look happy about it. Diana pretended to be just as unhappy, berating her dear but stupid and sickly lover, while inside praying the operation wasn't blown.

Years of planning taken out by a migraine. How the hell do you even try to explain that one to the higher ups?

Neal slowly eased himself upright.

“I'm good,” he said, looking anything but good. He plastered on a smile, anyway, flowing out of the car like liquid. “Sorry about that. These headaches kick my ass like you wouldn't believe.”

The thing about acting – pretending - was that there was often some truth to the lies. The fewer the lies, the more you could believe in what you were trying to sell, the easier the act. Whether it was going undercover that had taught Diana this or observing Neal, she couldn't say and didn't really want to think about.

They toured only one cargo ship, the only ship still docked, Mark assuring his clients of the sound and sturdy nature of his vessels, the reliability of the crew, and an on-time delivery streak that had yet to be beat. Several of Mark's muscle had place themselves within the group, watching their every move carefully. Diana and Neal made sure to keep their hands where they could be seen.

The tour ended. They drove back to the mansion putting Neal through another ten minutes of misery.

“Yeah, this one's tenacious,” Neal rasped, the heels of his hands burrowing into his forehead. “I think it's trying to make a comeback.”

Yet he managed to shake it off, after a couple of minutes, once they were back. Terms of agreement were signed over drinks – Neal once again downing the Cokes. Account numbers were exchanged, and the clients were free to go home.

The sting was far from over. Appearances had to be maintained to the very end, forcing Diana to take the long way back to an expensive town house the FBI often used for these kinds of operations. She tried to drive careful, eased into stops rather than slam on the breaks, made turns slowly, even opened the window for Neal when he seemed incapable of doing it for himself.

It helped, at first. Neal's face turned to the cool breeze, his breathing deep but short. Diana pulled up to the curb next to the house.

Neal stuck his head out the window and threw up. Diana winced in sympathy, rubbing Neal's back until the purging passed.

“Let's get you to bed,” Diana said.

Neal wasn't so bad off that he needed help getting out of the car. He was unsteady, prompting Diana to keep a hand on his arm up the stairs. The town house had come well furnished, the “previous” owner unable to clear it out before the FBI took possession. Diana took Neal to the second floor master bedroom and the bed Diana only ever had the privilege of sitting on. But if it was as comfortable as it looked, Neal didn't notice. The moment he was out of his jacket and shoes and in bed, he curled up, moaning and burying his head under his arms. Diana closed the shades. She then dialed her cell.

“We're home.”

“Everything go okay?” Peter asked.

“Fine, fine. Kind of boring. You know how it is – all business and no play.” It was also wise to stay in character even miles away from the target. You never know who might have the means to listen in.

“Good to hear. I'll talk to you later.”

“Yeah, sure, whatever.” She winced and hung up. There was no getting used to having to be flippant with your boss. Checking her watch, it was almost lunch. She decided to order in – sandwiches, something light for Neal when he woke up.

But Neal was comatose for the rest of the day, Diana's worry growing exponentially until he finally came down around dinner.

“Feeling better?” Diana asked around a mouth full of Chow Mein.

Neal, rumpled, pale and groggy, dropped into the chair next to Diana, leaning his elbows on the polished oak table and his head in his hands.

“Maybe you should eat,” Diana said.

“Maybe,” Neal breathed.

Diana got the ham and cheese sandwich from the fridge, dumped it on a plate and set the plate and a Sprite in front of Neal.

“Eat, or else.”

“Yeah,” Neal said. He gathered the sandwich and took a half-hearted bite, washing it down with soda.

Diana watched him. “So when did it start? These migraines? Or did you always have them?”

“First one was when I was sixteen,” Neal said, picking at the lettuce falling out from between the white bread. “Like I said, don't get them often. Maybe once every two or three years. Used to be once a year, so it's an improvement.”

“How bad do they get?”

“They'll vary,” Neal replied. “Sometimes bad, sometimes really bad.”

“And this one, now, is it bad or really bad?”

“Not as bad as before,” Neal replied, and took another bite. After he chewed and swallowed, he said, “Last time I had one was... you know.”

“No, I don't know.”

“After Kate died,” Neal said hoarsely, as though he had to force the words out. “After the plane... Peter made me go to the hospital to get checked out. A migraine hit, one of the really bad ones, so the doctors kept me over night. Got a lesser one when they put me back in jail.” He took a third bite.

“What triggers them?” Diana asked next. “Do they have a trigger? Like stress or something?” Christie's migraines usually hit when work was hectic and her coworkers were being pains in the asses.

Neal shrugged. “Maybe, I don't know. They just kind of hit. No rhyme, no reason.”

Except for the life Neal lived, if you thought about it: before being caught, after being caught, his CI duties. But it was hard to imagine Neal Caffrey, the man who could make the world line up behind his whim with just a few well spoken words, as stressed.

Then again, all that self-control, all that careful planning, careful thinking, careful wording, careful everything; all that being cautious and ready, obviously it came with a price. It _had_ to come with a price, because nothing in life was free no matter how much Neal pretended otherwise.

And yet, Neal still pretended. He had been in agony, and still played the role. No wonder this damn migraine was trying to drag itself out. Pain didn't like to be ignored.

Neal took a fourth bite and was done. Diana ordered him back to bed.

“Or else what?” Neal said with a faint smile.

Diana smiled faintly back. “You know what.”

It was with a sigh of pseudo exaggeration that Neal dragged himself back up the stairs, just as Diana's phone rang.

“Yeah?”

“Diana? The account was accessed. We've got him.”

Diana exhaled in relief, slumping in her seat. “About time.”

“Yep. You and Neal can finally head home.”

Which sounded like heaven, but Diana gnawed her lip in concern. “Hey, boss, would it be possible to stay here overnight? Neal's not feeling so hot. It makes him car sick – bad.”

“Sick? What's wrong with him?”

“Just a headache. But I'd rather not move him.”

“I could send someone else over to watch him.”

“Well, I all ready know what to do. Plus I've been dying to try the beds in this place.”

Peter chuffed. “They do look comfortable. I suppose that's fine.”

“Thanks, boss. Hey, did you know Caffrey gets migraines?”

Silence, then. “He _what_?”

Diana explained, reiterating everything Neal had told her.

“But he kept at it, didn't even trip up. Hell, he actually _used_ it. I'm pretty sure that saved our asses.”

Peter chuckled. “Yeah, that's Neal for you.”

And Diana admired it, was even a little jealous, but no way would she admit it, not in a million years.

The End

**Author's Note:**

> Both Neal's migraine and his carsickness are based on my own personal experiences with both (only I drink Dr. Pepper, but Neal struck me as a Coke guy). Nausea always has a way of either giving me a headache or making an existing headache worse. I felt it was high time I took this out on someone *pats poor Neals aching head*.


End file.
